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THIRD    REVERIE 


A  Cigar  Three  Times  Lighted 


"  About  what,  pray  ?"  said  my  aunt.    "About  Love,"  said  I. 

—  Page  4 

Ovtr  Hit   Cigar 


FROM 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

BY 

IK.  MARVEL 

(DONALD  G.  MITCHELL) 


R.  F.  FENNO   &  COMPANY 

18  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1907 
BY  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


Stack 
Annex 


Over   His  Cigar 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an 
Aunt  Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars.  My 
Aunt  Tabithy  hated  them  with  a  peculiar 
hatred.  She  was  not  only  insensible  to  the 
rich  flavor  of  a  fresh  rolling  volume  of  smoke, 
but  she  could  not  so  much  as  tolerate  the  sight 
of  the  rich  russet  color  of  an  Havana-labeled 
box.  It  put  her  out  of  all  conceit  with  Guava 
jelly,  to  find  it  advertised  in  the  same  tongue, 
and  with  the  same  Cuban  coarseness  of  design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her, 
the  other  morning — "  there  is  very  much  that 
is  good  in  a  cigar." 

My  aunt,  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her 
head,  and  with  it,  her  curls — done  up  in  paper. 

"  It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I, 
puffing. 

"  It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "and  a  most 
pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings ;  and  a 
3 


©\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


! 


capital  companion ;  and  a  comforter "  and 

I  stopped  to  puff. 

"  You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said 

my  aunt — "  and  you  ought  to  be "  and  she 

stopped  to  put  up  one  of  her  curls,  which  with 
the  energy  of  her  gesticulation,  had  fallen  out 
of  its  place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts  " — continued  I 
— "  and  makes  a  man  meditative ;  and  gives  a 
current  to  his  habits  of  contemplation — as  I 
can  show  you,"  said  I,  warming  with  the 
theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers — with 
the  pin  in  her  mouth — gave  a  most  incredulous 
shrug. 

I  "  Aunt  Tabithy  " — said  I,  and  gave  two 
or  three  violent,  consecutive  puffs — "Aunt 
Tabithy,  I  can  make  up  such  a  series  of  reflec- 
I  tions  out  of  my  cigar,  as  would  do  your  heart 
::  good  to  listen  to  1 " 

"About  what,  pray?"  said  my  aunt,  con- 
temptuously. 

"  About  love,"  said  I, "  which  is  easy  enough 
lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it  in  a 
glow — or  about  matrimony,  which  has  a  great 
deal  of  fire  in  the  beginning,  but  it  is  a  fire 


©vcr  1bl0  (Hoar 


that   consumes  all  that  feeds  the  blaze — o: 
about  life,"  continued  I,  earnestly — "  which 
the  first  is  fresh  and  odorous,  but  ends  shortly 
in  a  withered  cinder,  that  is  fit  only  for  the 
ground." 

My  aunt  who  was  forty  and  unmarried, 
finished  her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers — re- 
sumed her  hold  of  the  broom,  and  leaned  her 
chin  upon  one  end  of  it,  with  an  expression  of 
some  wonder,  some  curiosity,  and  a  great  deal 
of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a 
little  less  curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little  C 
less  communicative:    for  though  it  was  all 
honestly  said  on  my  part,  yet  my  contempla- 
tions bore  that  vague,  shadowy,  and  delicious 
sweetness,  that  it  seemed  impossible  to 
them  into  words — least  of  all,  at  the  bidding^ 
of  an  old  lady,  leaning  on  a  broom-handle. 

"  Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I — ' 
good  dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and 
will  serve  you  such  a  sunshiny  sheet  of  reverie, 
all  twisted  out  of  the  smoke,  as  will  make  your 
kind  old  heart  ache  ! " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of 
my  mention  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the  smoke,  or 


0ver  Ibis  Cigar 


of  the  old  heart,  commenced  sweeping  furi- 
ously. 

"  If  I  do  not " — continued  I,  anxious  to  ap- 
pease her — "if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it 
shall  be  my  last  cigar  (Aunt  Tabithy  stopped 
sweeping) ;  and  all  my  tobacco  money  (Aunt 
Tabithy  drew  near  me),  shall  go  to  buy 
ribbons  for  ray  most  respectable,  and  worthy 
Aunt  Tabithy ;  and  a  kinder  person  could  not 
have  them ;  or  one,"  continued  I,  with  a  gen- 
erous puff,  "  whom  they  would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful — 
half-thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was 
struck ;  my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On 
her  part,  Aunt  Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in 
case  of  my  success,  an  evening  cigar  un- 
molested, upon  the  front  porch,  underneath 
her  favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded,  I 
say,  as  I  sat;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising 
gracefully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy's  curls ; 
our  right  hands  joined ;  my  left  was  holding 
my  cigar,  while  in  hers,  was  tightly  grasped — 
her  broom-stick. 

And  this  reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short, 
is  what  came  of  the  contract. 
6 


©ver  tots  digar 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting 
the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff — and  puff 
again ;  but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very 
little  hope  of  lighting  from  a  dead  coal — no 
more  hope,  thought  I — than  of  kindling  one's 
heart  into  flame,  by  contact  with  a  dead 
heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life ; 
and  I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking — even  before 
I  lit  my  cigar — on  the  vanity  and  folly  of 
those  poor,  purblind  fellows,  who  go  on  puffing 
for  half  a  lifetime,  against  dead  coals.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  Heaven,  in  its  mercy,  has 
made  their  senses  so  obtuse,  that  they  know 
not  when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or  when 
they  are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the 
most  moderate  satisfaction,  in  continuing  to 
love  what  has  got  no  ember  of  love  within 
it.  The  Italians  have  a  very  sensible  sort  of 
proverb — amare,  e  non  essere  amato,  e 

7 


Over  1bte  Cigar 


perduto — to  love,  and  not  be  loved,  is  time 
lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging 
down  a  coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it 
seemed  to  me — and  may  Heaven  pardon  the 
ill-nature  that  belongs  to  the  thought — that 
there  would  be  much  of  the  same  kind  of 
satisfaction,  in  dashing  from  you  a  lukewarm 
creature,  covered  over  with  the  yellow  ashes 
of  old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so  much 
attention,  and  the  nearest  approach  of  the  lips, 
never  shows  signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  for- 
give me  again,  but  I  should  long  to  break 
away,  though  the  marriage  bonds  held  me, 
and  see  what  liveliness  was  to  be  found  else- 
where. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try 
to  grow  up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots 
out  its  tendrils  in  all  directions,  seeking  for 
some  crevice  by  which  to  fasten  and  to  climb 
— looking  now  above  and  now  below — twining 
upon  itself — reaching  farther  up,  but  after  all, 
finding  no  good  foothold,  and  falling  away  as 
if  in  despair.  But  nature  is  not  unkind  ;  twin- 
ing things  were  made  to  twine.  The  longing 
tendrils  take  new  strength  in  the  sunshine, 
8 


<§>\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


and  in  the  showers,  and  shoot  out  towards 
some  hospitable  trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to 
the  kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and  stretch 
up,  dragging  after  them  the  vine;  which  by 
and  by,  from  the  topmost  bough,  will  nod  its 
blossoms  over  at  the  marble  wall,  that  refused 
it  succor,  as  if  it  said — stand  there  in  your 
pride,  cold,  white  wall !  we,  the  tree  and  I,  are 
kindred,  it  the  helper,  and  I  the  helped  ;  and 
bound  fast  together,  we  riot  in  the  sunshine, 
and  in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search 
for  a  new  coal  that  should  have  some  bright- 
ness in  it.  There  may  be  a  white  ash  over  it 
indeed ;  as  you  will  find  tender  feelings  cov- 
ered with  the  mask  of  courtesy,  or  with  the 
veil  of  fear  ;  but  with  a  breath  it  all  flies  off  ; 
and  exposes  the  heat,  and  the  glow  that  you 
are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the 
cigar  crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises — ' 
doubtfully  for  awhile,  and  with  a  coy  delay : 
but  after  a  hearty  respiration  or  two,  it  grows 
strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly  lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and  of  the 
fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom 
9 


©\>er  "tote  Cigar 


about  it,  that  you  wish  might  last.  It  is  like 
your  first  love — fresh,  genial,  and  rapturous. 
Like  that,  it  fills  up  all  the  craving  of  your 
soul;  and  the  light,  blue  wreaths  of  smoke, 
like  the  roseate  clouds  that  hang  around  the 
morning  of  your  heart  life,  cut  you  off  from 
the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly  compan- 
ionship, and  make  a  gorgeous  firmament  for 
your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later,  and  man- 
lier passions,  into  which  judgment  must  be 
thrusting  its  cold  tones,  and  when  all  the 
sweet  tumult  of  your  heart  has  mellowed  into 
the  sober  ripeness  of  affection.  But  I  mean 
that  boyish  burning,  which  belongs  to  every 
poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and  which  bewilders 
him  with  the  thought  that  he  has  reached  the 
highest  point  of  human  joy  before  he  has  tasted 
any  of  that  bitterness,  from  which  alone  our 
highest  human  joys  have  sprung.  I  mean  the 
time,  when  you  cut  initials  with  your  jack- 
knife  on  the  smooth  bark  of  beech  trees  ;  and 
went  moping  under  the  long  shadows  at  sun- 
set ;  and  thought  Louise  the  prettiest  name  in 
.the  wide  world ;  and  picked  flowers  to  leave  at 
her  door ;  and  stole  out  at  night  to  watch  the 
10 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


light  in  her  window ;  and  read  such  novels  as 
those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte,  to  give 
some  adequate  expression  to  your  agonized 
feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that 
you  are  deeply,  and  madly  in  love ;  you  per- 
sist in  the  face  of  heaven,  and  earth.  You 
would  like  to  meet  the  individual  who  dared 
to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest,  and  jaun- 
tiest little  figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You 
think  back  upon  some  time  when  in  your 
games  of  forfeit,  you  gained  a  kiss  from  those 
lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the  kiss  was  hanging 
on  you  yet,  and  warming  you  all  over.  And 
then  again,  it  seems  so  strange  that  your  lips 
did  really  touch  hers !  You  half  question  if  it 
could  have  been  actually  so — and  how  you 
could  have  dared — and  you  wonder  if  you 
would  have  courage  to  do  the  same  thing 
again?— and  upon  second  thought,  are  quite 
sure  you  would — and  snap  your  fingers  at  the 
thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and 
in  the  schoolroom,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up — 
what  curls — golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred 
11 


©ver  "fete  Ci^ar 


Golcondas!  How  bravely  you  study  the  top 
lines  of  the  spelling-book  that  your  eyes  may 
run  over  the  edge  of  the  cover,  without  the 
schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast  upon  her ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run 
away  with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in 
the  "  Children  of  the  Abbey  " — and  then  you 
might  ride  up  on  a  splended  black  horse,  and 
draw  a  pistol,  or  blunderbuss,  and  shoot  the 
villains,  and  carry  her  back,  all  in  tears,  faint- 
ing, and  languishing  upon  your  shoulder — and 
have  her  father  (who  is  judge  of  the  county 
court)  take  your  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  make 
some  eloquent  remarks.  A  great  many  such 
recaptures  you  run  over  in  your  mind,  and 
think  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your 
life,  either  by  flood,  or  fire — to  cut  off  your 
arm,  or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle — for  your 
dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joy- 
ous in  life,  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old 
castle,  very  far  away  from  steamboats,  and 
post-offices,  and  pick  wild  geraniums  for  her 
hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her,  under  the 
shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And  you  would 
have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some  corner 
12 


©\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and  books 
bound  in  gilt,  with  Cupids  on  the  cover,  and 
such  a  fairy  couch,  with  the  curtains  hung — 
as  you  have  seen  them  hung  in  some  illustrated 
Arabian  stories — upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves. 
And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you 
turn  it  off  perhaps  with  saying — "  It  isn't  so  "; 
but  afterwards,  in  your  chamber,  or  under  the 
tree  where  you  have  cut  her  name,  you  take 
Heaven  to  witness,  that  it  is  so ;  and  think — 
what  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so  careless  about 
such  holy  emotions !  You  perfectly  hate  a 
certain  stout  boy  in  a  green  jacket,  who  is  for- 
ever twitting  you,  and  calling  her  names  ;  but 
when  some  old  maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her 
kind,  gentle  way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly ; 
and  with  a  feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great 
deal  more  for  her  sake.  And  when  the  min- 
ister reads  off  marriage  announcements  in  the 
church,  you  think  how  it  will  sound  one  of 
these  days,  to  have  your  name,  and  hers,  read 
from  the  pulpit — and  how  the  people  will  look 
at  you,  and  how  prettily  she  will  blush ;  and 
how  poor  little  Dick,  who  you  know  loves  her, 
but  is  afraid  to  say  so,  will  squirm  upon  his 
bench. 

13 


$8$j$8fet$-¥j8Jj 


Over  Ibis  Cigar 


Heigho!  mused  I — as  the  blue  smoke 

rolled  up  around  my  head — these  first  kindlings 
of  the  love  that  is  in  one,  are  very  pleasant ! 
but  will  they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
as  she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music 
than  grown-up  ladies  will  make  upon  all  their 
harpsichords,  in  the  years  that  are  to  come. 
But  this,  thank  Heaven,  you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  foot-mark,  on 
your  way  to  the  school ;  and  what  a  dear  little 
foot-mark  it  is  1  And  from  that  single  point, 
if  she  be  out  of  your  sight  for  days,  you  con- 
jure up  the  whole  image — the  elastic,  lithe  little 
figure — the  springy  step — the  dotted  muslin  so 
light,  and  flowing — the  silk  kerchief,  with  its 
most  tempting  fringe  playing  upon  the  clear 
white  of  her  throat — how  you  envy  that  fringe ! 
And  her  chin  is  as  round  as  a  peach — and  the 
lips — such  lips !  and  you  sigh,  and  hang  your 
head ;  and  wonder  when  you  shall  see  her 
again  ! 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter ;  but 
then  people  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ;  and 
besides  you  are  not  quite  sure  you  could  write 
billets  as  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  used  to 
14 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


write;  and  anything  less  warm  or  elegant, 
would  not  do  at  all.  You  talk  about  this  one, 
or  that  one,  whom  they  call  pretty,  in  the 
coolest  way  in  the  world ;  you  see  very  little 
of  their  prettiness ;  they  are  good  girls  to  be 
sure;  and  you  hope  they  will  get  good  hus- 
bands some  day  or  other ;  but  it  is  not  a  matter 
that  concerns  you  very  much.  They  do  not 
live  in  your  world  of  romance ;  they  are  not 
the  angels  of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes 
rosy,  and  to  which  I  have  likened  the  blue 
waves  of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others ; 
you  can  smile — as  you  think — very  graciously ; 
you  can  say  laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in 
love  with  them,  and  think  it  a  most  capital 
joke ;  you  can  touch  their  hands,  or  steal  a  kiss 
from  them  in  your  games,  most  imperturbably 
— they  are  very  dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When  you 
take  the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems  somehow, 
to  be  made  of  different  materials  from  the 
rest ;  you  cannot  half  so  easily  separate  it  into 
letters ;  write  it  indeed,  you  can  ;  for  you  have 
had  practice — very  much  private  practice  on 
odd  scraps  of  paper,  and  on  the  fly-leaves  of 
15 


- 


, 


%k  ~&    "*/ 

w&  :< 


©vcr  t>is  Cigar 


*  ••  *»^  *~  ">v^ 

)  V.  ^  geographies,  and  of  your  natural  philosophy. 
''You  know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks ;  it 
seems  to  be  written,  indeed,  somewhere  behind 
your  eyes ;  and  in  such  happy  position  with 
respect  to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it  all 
the  time,  though  you  are  looking  in  an  oppo- 
site direction ;  and  so  distinctly,  that  you  have 
great  fears  lest  people  looking  into  your  eyes, 
should  see  it  too ! 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to 
Jj  handle  than  most  that  you  know  of.     Though 
*A  it  is  very  cool,  and  pleasant  on  the  brain,  it  is 
P  Very  hot,  and  difficult  to  manage  on  the  lip. 
;  It  is  not,  as  your  schoolmaster  would  say — a 
name,  so  much  as  it  is  an  idea — not  a  noun, 
but  a  verb — an  active,  and  transitive  verb ; 
,nd  yet  a  most  irregular  verb,  wanting  the 
assive  voice. 

*/&$  \  ^  *s  sometning  against  your  schoolmaster's 
trine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but 
/'with  that  soft  hand — it  is  very  soft — lying 
within  your  arm,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
warmth,  whatever  the  philosophers  may  say, 
even    in    pale    moonlight.     The    beams,   too, 
breed  sympathies,  very  close-running  sympa- 
ies-— not  talked  about  in  the  chapters  on 


©vet  Ibis  dtgar 


optics,  and  altogether  too  fine  for  language. 
And  under  their  influence,  you  retain  the  little 
hand,  that  you  had  not  dared  retain  so  long 
before  ;  and  her  struggle  to  recover  it — if  in- 
deed it  be  a  struggle — is  infinitely  less  than  it 
was — nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so  much 
against  you,  as  between  gladness  and  modesty. 
It  makes  you  as  bold  as  a  lion ;  and  the  feeble 
hand,  like  a  poor  lamb  in  the  lion's  clutch,  is 
powerless,  and  very  meek — and  failing  of 
escape,  it  will  sue  for  gentle  treatment ;  and 
will  meet  your  warm  promise,  with  a  kind  of 
grateful  pressure,  that  is  but  half  acknowl- 
edged, by  the  hand  that  makes  it. 

My  cigar   is  burning  with  wondrous  free- 
ness  ;  and  from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images 

o 

bright  and  quick  as  lightning — with  no  thunder, 
but  the  thunder  of  the  pulse.  But  will  it  all 
last  ?  Damp  will  deaden  the  fire  of  a  cigar ; 
and  there  are  hellish  damps — alas,  too  many — 
that  will  deaden  the  early  blazing  of  the  heart. 
She  is  pretty — growing  prettier  to  your  eye, 
the  more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to 
your  ear,  the  more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you 
wonder  who  the  tall  boy  was,  who  you  saw 
walking  with  her,  two  days  ago  ?  He  was  not 
17 


©\>er  Ibis 


a  bad-looking  boy ;  on  the  contrary  you  think 
(with  a  grit  of  your  teeth)  that  he  was  infernally 
handsome !  You  look  at  him  very  shyly,  and 
very  closely,  when  you  pass  him  ;  and  turn  to 
see  how  he  walks,  and  how  to  measure  his 
shoulders,  and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the 
very  modest,  and  gentlemanly  way,  with 

•\  which  he  carries  himself.  You  think  you 
would  like  to  have  a  fisticuff  with  him,  if  you 

;:  were  only  sure  of  having  the  best  of  it.  You 
sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to  find  out  who 
the  strange  boy  is :  and  are  half  ashamed  of 
yourself  for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send 
her  and  tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  love 
knot — and  get  a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowl- 
edgment. That  day,  you  pass  the  tall  boy 
with  a  very  patronizing  look  ;  and  wonder  if 
he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail  in  your  boat  ? 
But  by  and  by,  you  will  find  the  tall  boy 
walking  with  her  again ;  and  she  looks  side- 

.<  ways  at  him,  and  with  a  kind  of  grown  up  air, 
that  makes  you  feel  very  boy  like,  and  humble 
aud  furious.  And  you  look  daggers  at  him 
when  you  pass;  and  touch  your  cap  to  her, 
with  quite  uncommon  dignity  ;  and  wonder  if 
18  - 


©\>er  Ibis 


he  is  not  sorry,  and  does  not  feel  very  badly, 
to  have  got  such  a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her 
alone ;  and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face 
wear  a  genial,  sunny  air ;  and  you  talk  a  little 
sadly  about  your  fears  and  your  jealousies ;  she 
seems  a  little  sad,  and  a  little  glad,  together ; 
and  is  sorry  she  has  made  you  feel  badly — 
and  you  are  sorry  too.  And  with  this  pleasant 
twin  sorrow,  you  are  knit  together  again — 
closer  than  ever.  That  one  little  tear  of  hers 
has  been  worth  more  to  you  than  a  thousand 
smiles.  Now  you  love  her  madly ;  you  could 
swear  it — swear  it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the 
universe.  You  even  say  as  much  to  some  kind 
old  friend  at  nightfall ;  but  your  mention  of 
her,  is  tremulous  and  joyful — with  a  kind  of 
bound  in  your  speech,  as  if  the  heart  worked 
too  quick  for  the  tongue;  and  as  if  the  lips 
were  ashamed  to  be  passing  over  such  secrets 
of  the  soul,  to  the  mere  sense  of  hearing.  At 
this  stage  you  cannot  trust  yourself  to  speak 
her  praises  or  if  you  venture,  the  expletives 
fly  away  with  your  thought,  before  you  can 
chain  it  into  language;  and  your  speech,  at 
your  best  endeavor,  is  but  a  succession  of 
19 


©\>er  t)ie  Cigar 


broken  superlatives,  that  you  are  ashamed  of. 
You  strain  for  language  that  will  scald  the 
thought  of  her ;  but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it 

falls  back  upon  your  heated  fancy  like  a  cold 
, 
shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast ; 

* 

and  the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is — judg- 
ment; and  with  judgment  gone,  there  is  room 
for  jealousy  to  creep  in.  You  grow  petulant 
at  another  sight  of  that  tall-boy ;  and  the  one 
tear  which  cured  your  first  petulance,  will  not 
cure  it  now.  You  let  a  little  of  your  fever 
break  out  in  speech — a  speech  which  you  go 
home  to  mourn  over.  But  she  knows  nothing1 

o 

of  the  mourning,  while  she  knows  very  much 
of  the  anger.  Vain  tears  are  very  apt  to  breed 
pride ;  and  when  you  go  again  with  your  petu- 
lance, you  will  find  your  rosy -lipped  girl  taking 
her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say — poor  fool,  you 
are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves  best ! 
You  wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing  for  your  re- 
turn— and  if  your  name  is  not  running  in  her 


thought  —  and  if  tears  of  regret  are  not  moisten- 
ing those  sweet  eyes. 


And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  moodily, 
20 


©\>er  Ibis  Ci$ar 


and  hopefully  towards  her  father's  home ;  you 
pass  the  door  once — twice;  you  loiter  under 
the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  where  you  have  some- 
times bid  her  adieu  ;  your  old  fondness  is  strug- 
gling with  your  pride,  and  has  almost  made  the 
mastery ;  but  in  the  very  moment  of  victory, 
you  see  yonder  your  hated  rival,  and  beside 
him,  looking  very  gleeful,  and  happy — your 
perfidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your 
struggle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boy- 
hood ;  and  what  a  dextrous  handling  to  your 
knife,  and  what  a  wonderful  keenness  to  the 
edge,  as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark  of  the 
beech-tree,  all  trace  of  her  name  !  Still  there 
is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a  few  tears  at 
night,  and  a  little  tremor  of  the  hand,  as  you 
tear  out — the  next  day — every  fly-leaf  that 
bears  her  name.  But  at  sight  of  your  rival 
looking  so  jaunty,  and  in  such  capital 
you  put  on  the  proud  man  again.  You  may 
meet  her,  but  you  say  nothing  of  your  strug- 
gles— oh,  no,  not  one  word  of  that ! — but  you 
talk  with  amazing  rapidity  about  your  games, 
or  what  not ;  and  you  never — never  give  her 
another  peep  into  your  boyish  heart ! 
21 


For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her — nor  for  a 
month — nor  two  months — nor  three. 

Puff — puff  once  more ;  there  is  only  a 

little  nauseous  smoke ;  and  now — my  cigar  is 
gone  out  altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


©ver  Die  Cigar 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER 

THERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar, 
when  once  gone  out;  they  must  needs  have 
plenty  more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard 
of,  keeps  a  cedar  box  of  hearts,  labeled  at  Ha- 
vana. Alas,  there  is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit,  be  lighted  again  ? 
Authority  on  this  point  is  worth  something; 
yet  it  should  be  impartial  authority.  I  should 
be  loth  to  take  in  evidence,  for  the  fact — how- 
ever it  might  tally  with  my  hope,  the  affidavit 
of  some  rakish  old  widower,  who  had  cast  his 
weeds,  before  the  grass  had  started  on  the 
mound  of  his  affliction ;  and  I  should  be  as 
slow  to  take,  in  way  of  rebutting  testimony, 
the  oath  of  any  sweet  young  girl,  just  becom- 
ing conscious  of  her  heart's  existence — by  its 
loss. 

Yery  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon 
the  quality  of  the  fire :  and  I  can  easily  con- 
ceive of  one  so  pure,  so  constant,  so  ex? 
23 


©vcr  Ibis  Cigar 


hausting,  that  if  it  were  once  gone  out, 
whether  in  the  chills  of  death,  or  under  the 
blasts  of  pitiless  fortune,  there  would  be  no 
rekindling;  simply  because  there  would  be 
nothing  left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  imagine 
too  a  fire  so  earnest,  and  so  true,  that  what- 
ever malice  might  urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity 
devise,  there  could  no  other  be  found,  high  or 
low,  far  or  near,  which  should  not  so  contrast 
with  the  first,  as  to  make  it  seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's, 
the  hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress ;  he  is 
worked  upon  by  slanders,  to  quit  her  altogether 
— though  he  has  loved,  and  does  still  love 
passionately.  She  bids  him  adieu,  with  large 
tears  dropping  from  her  eyes  (and  I  lay  down 
my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancying  all  the 
while,  with  a  varlet  impudence,  that  some 
Abstemia  is  repeating  it  to  me) : 


Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife:  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion :  and  if  yon  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  yon. 
24 


©ver  Ibis 


And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice, 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  thin,  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  path  with  flowers  ! 

Poor  Abstemia !  Lorenzo  never  could 

find  such  another — there  never  could  be  such 
another,  for  such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old 
fire  be  utterly  gone  ;  and  can  any  truly-lighted 
soul  ever  grow  cold,  except  the  grave  cover  it? 
The  poets  all  say  no :  Othello,  had  he  lived  a 
thousand  years,  would  not  have  loved  again — 
nor  Desdemona — nor  Andromache — nor  Medea 
— nor  Ulysses — nor  Hamlet.  But  in  the  cool 
wreaths  of  the  pleasant  smoke,  let  us  see  what 
truth  is  in  the  poets. 

What  is  love — mused  I — at  the  first, 

but  a  mere  fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness,  that 


your  soul  cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant 
flower,  or  your  ear  to  a  soft  melody.  Pres- 
ently, admiration  comes  in,  as  a  sort  of 
balance  wheel  for  the  eccentric  revolutions  of 
your  fancy ;  and  your  admiration  is  touched 
off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect.  Too 
much  of  this,  indeed,  they  say,  deadens  the 
fancy ;  and  so  retards  the  action  of  the  heart 
25 


<§>\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


machinery.  But  with  a  proper  modicum  to 
serve  as  a  stock,  devotion  is  grafted  in ;  and 
then,  by  an  agreeable  and  confused  mingling 
all  these  qualities,  and  affections  of  the  soul, 
become  transfused  into  that  vital  feeling,  called 
love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  an- 
other and  better  counterpart  of  your  human- 
ity ;  what  is  left  of  you,  seems  the  mere^husk 
of  some  kernel  that  has  been  stolen.  It  is  not 
an  emotion  of  yours,  which  is  making  very 
easy  voyages  towards  another  soul — that  may 
be  shortened,  or  lengthened,  at  will ;  but  it  is 
a  passion,  that  is  only  yours,  because  it  is 
there;  the  more  it  lodges  there,  the  more 
keenly  you  feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion,  may  in- 
deed belong  to  you ;  but  they  never  gave  birth 
to  such  an  one  before,  simply  because  there 
was  no  place  in  which  it  could  grow.  Nature 
is  very  provident  in  these  matters.  The 
chrysalis  does  not  burst,  until  there  is  a  wing 
to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The  shell  does 
not  break,  until  the  bird  can  breathe ;  nor 
/iocs  the  swallow  quit  its  nest,  until  its  wings 
f  are  tipped  with  the  airy  oars. 

26 


<§>\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  pro- 
portion as  the  atmosphere  it  finds,  is  tender  of 
its  life.  Let  that  atmosphere  change  into  too 
great  coldness,  and  the  passion  becomes  a 
wreck — not  yours,  because  it  is  not  worth 
your  having — nor  vital,  because  it  has  lost  the 
soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying  the 
reproach  in  a  high  quarter,  to  say  that  those 
qualities  of  the  heart  which  begot  this  passion, 
are  exhausted,  and  will  not  thenceforth  germi- 
nate through  all  of  your  lifetime  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from 

your  arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of 
the  despoiled  climber  will  not  at  the  first, 
touch  any  new  trellis;  they  cannot  in  a  day, 
change  the  habit  of  a  year.  But  let  the  new 
support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy  tendrils 
will  presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger  !  and 
your  plant  will  regain  its  pride  and  pomp; 
cherishing  perhaps  in  its  bent  figure,  a 
memento  of  the  old ;  but  in  its  more  earnest, 
and  abounding  life,  mindful  only  of  its  sweet 
dependence  on  the  new. 

Let  the  poets  say  what  they  will;  these 
affections  of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid 
creatures,  to  starve  under  polar  snows,  when 
27 


©vcr  Ibis  Cigar 


the  very  breezes  of  Heaven  are  the  appointed 
messengers  to  guide  them  towards  warmth 
and  sunshine ! 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner, 

I  tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding  it  in 
the  blaze  of  my  lamp,  re-light  my  cigar.  It 
does  not  burn  so  easily  perhaps  as  at  first :  it 
wants  warming,  before  it  will  catch ;  but 
presently,  it  is  in  a  broad,  full  glow,  that 
throws  light  into  the  corners  of  my  room. 

Just  so— thought  I — the  love  of  youth, 

which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood, 
makes  a  broader  flame,  though  it  may  not  be 
so  easily  kindled.  A  mere  dainty  step,  or  a 
curling  lock,  or  a  soft  blue  eye  are  not  enough ; 
but  in  her,  who  has  quickened  the  new  blaze, 
there  is  a  blending  of  all  these,  with  a  certain 
sweetness  of  soul,  that  finds  expression  in 
whatever  feature  or  motion  you  look  upon. 
.Her  charms  steal  over  you  gently,  and  almost 
imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she  is  a 
pleasant  companion — nothing  more:  and  you 
find  the  opinion  strongly  confirmed,  day  by 
day ;  so  well  confirmed,  indeed,  that  you  be- 
gin to  wonder — why  it  is,  that  she  is  such  a 
delightful  companion  ?  It  cannot  be  her  eye, 
28 


Nelly 


-Page  28 


Over   His    Cigar 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


for  you  have  seen  eyes  almost  as  pretty  as 
Nelly's ;  nor  can  it  be  her  mouth,  though 
Nelly's  mouth  is  certainly  very  sweet.  And 
you  keep  studying  what  on  earth  it  can  be 
that  makes  you  so  earnest  to  be  near  her,  or 
to  listen  to  her  voice.  The  study  is  pleasant.. 
You  do  not  know  any  study  that  is  more  so ;: 
or  which  you  accomplish  with  less  mental' 
fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  am 
is  balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice; 
and  manner,  more  balmy  still,  you  wonder — if 
you  are  in  love?  When  a  man  has  such  a; 
wonder,  he  is  either  very  near  love,  or  he  is 
very  far  away  from  it ;  it  is  a  wonder,  that  is; 
either  suggested  by  his  hope,  or  by  that  en- 
tanglement, of  feeling  which  blunts  all  his 
perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong 
fancy — so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends 
carelessly,  that  she  is  a  nice  girl — nay,  a  beau- 
tiful girl ;  and  if  your  education  has  been  bad,s 
you  strengthen  the  epithet  on  your  own  tongue, 
with  a  very  wicked  expletive — of  which  the 
mildest  form  would  be — "  deuced  fine  girl !  " 
Presently,  however,  you  get  beyond  this ;  and 
29 


©\>er  Ibie 


your  companionship,  and  your  wonder,  relapse 
into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  unmistakable 
love — not  impulsive,  quick,  and  fiery,  like  the 
first ;  but  mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it  were 
born  with  your  soul,  and  the  recognition  of  it 
was  rather  an  old  remembrance,  than  a  fresh 
passion.  It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  ex- 
uberance, and  force,  with  such  relief  as  night- 
serenades,  or  any  Jacques-like  meditations  in 
the  forest ;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that  floats 
on  your  hope,  into  the  years  to  come — making 
the  prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was 
stormy,  or  harmful :  it  gives  a  permanence  to 
the  smile  of  existence.  It  does  not  make  the 
sea  of  your  life  turbulent  with  high  emotions, 
as  if  a  strong  wind  were  blowing — but  it  is  as 
if  an  Aphrodite  had  broken  on  the  surface,  and 
the  ripples  were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low 
sound,  and  widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores 
of  time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to 
bolster  up  your  feelings  with  extravagant  vows: 
even  should  you  try  this  in  her  presence,  the 
words  are  lacking  to  put  such  vows  in.  So 
soon  as  you  reach  them,  they  fail  you :  and  the 
30 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip,  or  tells  its  story 
by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You  wear  a 
brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances, 
and  hint — with  a  sly  look — at  possible  changes 
in  your  circumstances.  Of  an  evening,  you 
are  kind  to  the  most  unattractive  of  the  wall- 
flowers— if  only  your  Nelly  is  away ;  and  you 
have  a  sudden  charity  for  street  beggars,  with 
pale  children.  You  catch  yourself  taking  a 
step  in  one  of  the  new  polkas,  upon  a  country 
walk ;  and  wonder  immensely  at  the  number  of 
bright  days  which  succeed  each  other,  without 
leaving  a  single  stormy  gap,  for  your  old  mel- 
ancholy moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at 
your  hotel,  never  did  their  duty  one-half  so  ^ 
well ;  and  as  for  your  man,  Tom,  he  is  become  v| 
a  perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow ;  but  it  has  gone 
out  once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

You   begin  to  talk  of  marriage;  but 

some  obstinate  papa,  or  guardian  uncle  thinks 
that  it  will  never  do — that  it  is  quite  too  soon, 
or  that  Nelly  is  a  mere  girl.  Or  some  of  your 
wild  oats — quite  forgotten  by  yourself — shoot 
up  on  the  vision  of  a  staid  mamma,  and  throw 
a  very  damp  shadow  on  your  character.  Or 
31 


<S>ver  Ibis 


the  old  lady  has  an  ambition  of  another  sort, 
which  you,  a  simple,  earnest,  plodding  bach- 
elor, can  never  gratify  —  being  of  only  passable 
appearance,  and  unschooled  in  the  fashions  of 
the  world,  you  will  be  eternally  rubbing  the 
elbows  of  the  old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflicted  to  one 
who  has  been  living  for  quite  a  number  of 
weeks,  or  months,  in  a  pleasant  dream-land, 
where  there  were  no  five  per  cents.,  or  reputa- 
tions, but  only  a  very  full,  and  delirious  flow 
of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any  position, 
except  a  position  near  the  being  that  you 
love?  What  wealth  do  you  prize,  except  a 
wealth  of  heart,  that  shall  never  know  diminu- 
tion ;  or  for  reputation,  except  that  of  truth, 
and  of  honor  ?  How  hard  it  would  break  upon 
these  pleasant  idealities,  to  have  a  weazen- 
faced  old  guardian  set  his  arm  in  yours,  and 
tell  you  how  tenderly  he  has  at  heart  the  hap- 
piness of  his  niece  ;  and  reason  with  you  about 
your  very  small,  and  sparse  dividends,  and  your 
limited  business  ;  and  caution  you  —  for  he  has 
a  lively  regard  for  your  interests  —  about  con- 
tinuing your  addresses  ? 


-  The  kind  old  curmudgeon  I 


©\>er  1bt0  Cigar 


Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very- 
stupid  fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered 
wall-flowers,  is  gone.  Perhaps  in  your  wrath 
the  suspicion  comes  over  you,  that  she  too 
wishes  you  were  something  higher,  or  more 
famous,  or  richer,  or  anything  but  what  you 
are  !  a  very  dangerous  suspicion :  for  no  man 
with  any  true  nobility  of  soul  can  ever  make 
his  heart  the  slave  of  another's  condescension. 

But  no— you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe 
this  of  Nelly  ;  that  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and 
gracious ;  and  her  manner,  as  she  takes  your 
hand,  after  your  heart  is  made  sad,  and  turns 
away  those  rich  blue  eyes — shadowed  more 
deeply  than  ever  by  the  long  and  moistened 
fringe ;  and  the  exquisite  softness,  and  mean- 
ing of  the  pressure  of  those  little  fingers ;  and 
the  low,  half  sob;  and  the  heaving  of  that 
bosom,  in  its  struggles  between  love,  and  duty 
— all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  ten- 
derly indulgent,  like  the  fond  creature  that 
she  is,  towards  all  your  short-comings;  and 
would  not  barter  your  strong  love,  and  your 
honest  heart,  for  the  greatest  magnate  in  the 
land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of  2) 
33 


©ver  1bi0  Cigar 


a  true-hearted  woman!  That  last  fond  look 
of  hers,  hopeful  and  encouraging,  has  more 
power  within  it  to  nerve  your  soul  to  high 
deeds,  than  all  the  admonitions  of  all  your 
tutors.  Your  heart,  beating  large  with  hope, 
quickens  the  flow  upon  the  brain;  and  you 
make  wild  vows  to  win  greatness.  But  alas, 
this  is  a  great  world — very  full,  and  very 
rough: 

all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do ; 

All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer. 1 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a 
name ;  and  long  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
must  be  passed  in  the  chase  of  that  bubble — 
reputation ;  which  when  once  grasped,  breaks 
in  your  eager  clutch,  into  a  hundred  lesser 
bubbles,  that  soar  above  you  still ! 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time, 
and  a  note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up 
the  blaze  in  your  heart.  But  presently,  the 
lynx-eyed  old  guardian — so  tender  of  your  in- 
terests, and  hers — forbids  even  this  irregular 
and  unsatisfying  correspondence.  Now  you 


'Festus. 
34 


A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to   time." 


-•Page  34 


Over   His    Cigar 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


can  feed  yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses  of  her 
figure — as  full  of  sprightliness  and  grace,  as 
ever;  and  that  beaming  face,  you  are  half 
sorry  to  see  from  time  to  time — still  beautiful. 
You  struggle  with  your  moods  of  melancholy, 
and  wear  bright  looks  yourself — bright  to  her, 
and  very  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  old  cur- 
mudgeon, who  has  snatched  your  heart  away. 
It  will  never  do  to  show  your  weakness  to  a 
man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you 
learn  that  she  is  gone — too  far  away  to  be 
seen,  too  closely  guarded  to  be  reached.  For 
awhile  you  throw  down  your  books,  and  aban- 
don your  toil  in  despair — thinking  very  bitter 
thoughts,  and  making  very  helpless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning ;  but  it  will  require 
constant  and  strong  respiration  to  keep  it  in  a 
glow. 

A  letter  or  two  dispatched  at  random,  re-/ 
lieve  the  excess  of  your  fever ;  until  with  prac- 
tice, these  random  letters  have  even  less  heat 
in  them,  than  the  heat  of  your  study,  or  of 
your  business.  Grief — thank  God  ! — is  not  so 
progressive,  or  so  cumulative  as  joy.  For  a 
time,  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood,  with 
35 


Over  Die 


which  you  recall  your  broken  hopes ;  and  with 
which  you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the  shattered 
wreck :  but  absence,  and  ignorance  tame  the 


point  of  your  woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of 
Nelly,  adorning  other  and  distant  scenes.  You 
see  the  tearful  smile  give  place  to  a  blithesome 
cheer ;  and  the  thought  of  you  that  shaded  her 
fair  face  so  long,  fades  under  the  sunshine  of 
gayety ;  or  at  best,  it  only  seems  to  cross  that 
white  forehead,  like  a  playful  shadow,  that  a 
fleecy  cloud-remnant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny 
lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world  with  its  whirl  and 
roar,  is  deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes,  that 
come  up  through  old,  choked  channels  of  the 
affections.  Life  is  calling  for  earnestness,  and 
not  for  regrets.  So  the  months,  and  the  years 
slip  by ;  your  bachelor  habit  grows  easy  and 
light  with  wearing ;  you  have  mourned  enough, 
to  smile  at  the  violent  mourning  of  others ;  and 
you  have  enjoyed  enough,  to  sigh  over  their 
little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark  shades,  and  de- 
licious streaks  of  crimson  and  gold  color  lie 
upon  your  life.  Your  heart  with  all  its  weight 
of  ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a  fairy 
step ;  and  your  face  can  yet  open  into  a  round 
36 


©\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


of  joyous  smiles,  that  are  almost  hopes — in  the 
presence  of  some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this,  there  will  float  over  you  from 
time  to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you 
will  hear  again  with  a  thirsty  ear,  the  witching 
melody  of  the  days  that  are  gone;  and  you 
will  wake  from  it  with  a  shudder  into  the  cold 
resolves  of  your  lonely,  and  manly  life.  But 
the  shudder  passes  as  easy  as  night  from  morn- 
ing. Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that  touch 
to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons  to  break  through 
the  panoply  of  your  seared,  eager,  and  ambi- 
tious manhood.  They  onlj7  venture  out  like 
timid,  white- winged  flies,  when  night  is  come ; 
and  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dawn,  they 
shrivel  up,  and  lie  without  a  flutter,  in  some 
corner  of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she 
has  returned — a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow, 
but  no  tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life] 
and  time  have  worried  you  down  like  a  spent 
hound.  The  world  has  given  you  a  habit  of 
easy  and  unmeaning  smiles.  You  half  accuse 
yourself  of  ingratitude  and  forgetf ulness  ;  but 
the  accusation  does  not  oppress  you.  It  does 
not  even  distract  your  attention  from  the  morn- 
37 


©vet  1bfs  Cigar 


ing  journal.  You  cannot  work  yourself  into  a 
respectable  degree  of  indignation  against  the 
old  gentleman — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing !  and  in  a  very  flashy 
waistcoat,  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly — a  comely,  matronly 
//f  dame  in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered 
under  a  high-topped  comb ;  and  she  presents 
to  you  two  little  boys  in  smart  crimson  jack- 
ets, dressed  up  with  braid.  And  you  dine  with 
madam — a  family  party  ;  and  the  weazen-faced 
old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a  most  pleasant 
shake  of  the  hand — hints  that  you  were  among 
his  niece's  earliest  friends,  and  hopes  that  you 
are  getting  on  well  ? 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert — Dick  to 
get  a  plum  from  your  own  dish ;  Tom  to  be 
kissed  by  his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you 
are  made  perfectly  at  home ;  and  you  sit  over 
your  wine  for  an  hour,  in  a  cozy  smoke  with 
the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and  with  the  very 
courteous  husband  of  your  second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table,  for  good 
wine  is,  I  find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the 
bachelor  heart.  But  afterwards,  when  night 
38 


©\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


has  fairly  set  in  and  the  blaze  of  your  fire 
goes  flickering  over  your  lonely  quarters,  you 
heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your  thought  runs 
back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and  calls  up  the 
married,  and  matronly  Nelly,  you  sob  over 
that  poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which 
craves  so  madly  a  free  and  joyous  utterance ! 
And  as  you  lean  over  with  your  forehead  in 
your  hands  and  your  eyes  fall  upon  the  old 
hounds  slumbering  on  the  rug — the  tears  start, 
and  you  wish — that  you  had  married  years 
ago ;  and  that  you  too  had  your  pair  of  prat- 
tling boys,  to  drive  away  the  loneliness  of  your 
solitary  hearthstone. 

, My  cigar  would  not  go ;  it  was  fairly 

out.  But  with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I 
vowed  that  I  would  light  again. 


©vcr  "tots  Cigar 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH 

I  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
matches  were  never  made  in  heaven  ;  and  it  is 
sad  to  think,  that  with  few  exceptions,  matches 
are  all  of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the 
coals  being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match 
is  all  that  is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ; 
and  there  are  those,  that  with  the  most 
indefatigable  coaxings,  never  show  a  spark. 
They  may  indeed  leave  in  their  trail  phos- 
phorescent streaks ;  but  you  can  no  more 
light  your  cigar  at  them,  than  you  can  kindle 
your  heart,  at  the  covered  wife- trails,  which 
the  infernal,  gossiping,  old  match-makers  will 
lay  in  your  path. 

Was   there   ever  a  bachelor  of  seven  and 

twenty,  I  wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted 

by   pleasant  old  ladies,  and   trim,  excellent, 

good-natured,   married   friends,   who  talk  to 

40 


Ibis  Cigar 


him  about  nice  matches — "  very  nice  matches," 
matches  which  never  go  off  ?  And  who,  pray, 
has  not  had  some  kind  old  uncle,  to  fill  two 
sheets  for  him  (perhaps  in  the  time  of  heavy 
postages),  about  some  most  eligible  connection 
— "  of  highly  respectable  parentage !  " 

"What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a 
withered  bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the 
dignity  of  an  ancestral  tree !  What  a  precious 
surprise  for  him,  who  has  all  his  life  worshiped 
the  wing-heeled  Mercury,  to  find  on  a  sudden, 
a  great  stock  of  preserved,  and  most  respect- 
able Penates ! 

—In  God's  name — thought  I,  puffing  vehe- 
mently— what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for, 
if  not  to  choose,  where  his  heart's  blood,  every 
drop  of  it  is  flowing  ?  "Who  is  going  to  dam 
these  billowy  tides  of  the  soul,  whose  roll  is 
ordered  by  a  planet  greater  than  the  moon — 
and  that  planet — Yenus?  "Who  is  going  to 
shift  this  vane  of  my  desires,  when  every 
breeze  that  passes  in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it 
all  the  more  strongly,  to  its  fixed  bearings  ? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money  matches, 
urged    upon    you   by   disinterested    bachelor 
friends,  who  would  be  very  proud  to  see  you 
41 


®ver  1>i0.  Cigar 


at  the  head  of  an  establishment.  And  I  must 
confess  that  this  kind  of  talk  has  a  pleasant 
jingle  about  it ;  and  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
aids  to  a  bachelor's  day-dreams,  that  can  well 
be  imagined.  And  let  not  the  pouting  lady 
condemn  me,  without  a  hearing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think — for  a  con- 
templative bachelor — that  the  pretty  ermine 
which  so  sets  off  the  transparent  hue  of  your 
imaginary  wife,  or  the  lace  which  lies  so  be- 
wltchingly  upon  the  superb  roundness  of  her 
form — or  the  graceful  bodice,  trimmed  to  a 
line,  which  is  of  such  exquisite  adaptation  to 
her  lithe  figure,  will  be  always  at  her  com- 
mand— nay,  that  these  are  only  units  among 
the  chameleon  hues,  under  which  you  shall 
feed  upon  her  beauty  !  I  want  to  know  if  it 
is  not  a  pretty  cabinet  picture,  for  fancy  to 
luxuriate  upon — that  of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is 
cheating  hosts  of  friends  into  love,  sympathy 
and  admiration,  by  the  modest  munificence  of 
her  wealth?  Is  it  not  rather  agreeable,  to 
feed  your  hopeful  soul  upon  that  abundance, 
which,  while  it  supplies  her  need,  will  give  a 
jange  to  her  loving  charities — which  will  keep 
from  her  brow  the  shadows  of  anxiety,  and 
42 


©ver  Ibis  Cicjar 


will  sublime  her  gentle  nature,  by  adding  to  it 
the  grace  of  an  angel  of  mercy  ? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the 
pestilent  humors  of  bachelorhood  hang  heavy 
on  you,  to  foresee  in  that  shadowy  realm, 
where  hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet  of  a  home, 
made  splendid  with  attractions ;  and  made 
real,  by  the  presence  of  her,  who  bestows 
them  ?  Upon  my  word — thought  I,  as  I  con- 
tinued puffing — such  a  match  must  make  a 
very  grateful  lighting  of  one's  inner  sym- 
pathies ;  nor  am  I  prepared  to  say,  that  such 
associations  would  not  add  force  to  the  most 
abstract  love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment — what  is  it,  that 
we  poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love,  if  one  may 
judge  for  himself,  over  his  cigar — gentleness, 
beauty,  refinement,  generosity,  and  intelligence 
— and  far  above  these,  a  returning  love,  made 
up  of  all  these  qualities,  and  gaining  upon 
your  love,  day  by  day,  and  month  by  month, 
like  a  sunny  morning,  gaining  upon  the  frosts 
of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ; 
and  it  is  a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  re- 
moves disturbing  anxieties  ;  and  it  is  a  pretty 
43 


<§>ver  Ibis  Cigar 


promoter  of  intelligence,  since  it  multiplies  the 
avenues  for  its  reception  ;  and  it  is  a  good  basis 
for  a  generous  habit  of  life ;  it  even  equips 
beauty,  neither  hardening  its  hand  with  toil, 
nor  tempting  the  wrinkles  to  come  early.  But 
whether  it  provokes  greatly  that  returning 
passion — that  abnegation  of  soul — that  sweet 
trustfulness,  and  abiding  affection,  which  are 
to  clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more 
doubtful.  Wealth,  while  it  gives  so  much, 
asks  much  in  return  ;  and  the  soul  that  is 
grateful  to  mammon,  is  not  over  ready  to  be 
grateful  for  intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard  to 
gratify  those,  who  have  nothing  left  to  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man  who  having  wearied 
his  soul  with  delays  and  doubts,  or  exhausted 
the  freshness,  and  exuberance  of  his  youth — by 
a  hundred  little  dallyings  with  love — consigns 
himself  at  length  to  the  issues  of  what  people 
call  a  nice  match — whether  of  money,  or  of  a 
family ! 

Heaven  help  you  (I  brush  the  ashes  from  my 
cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard  marriage  as 
only  a  respectable  institution,  and  under  the 
advices  of  staid  old  friends,  begin  to  look  about 
you  for  some  very  respectable  wife.  You  may 
44 


Ovir  Hit    Cigar 


"  Her  dress  is  elegant  and  tasteful." 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


admire  her  figure,  and  her  family  ;  and  bear 
pleasantly  in  mind  the  very  casual  mention 
which  has  been  made  by  some  of  your  pene- 
trating friends — that  she  has  large  expecta- 
tions. You  think  that  she  would  make  a  very; 
capital  appearance  at  the  head  of  your  table ;. 
nor  in  the  event  of  your  coming  to  any  public; ^ 
honor,  would  she  make  you  blush  for  her  breed- 
ing. She  talks  well,  exceedingly  well ;  and: 
her  face  has  its  charms  ;  especially  under  % 
little  excitement.  Her  dress  is  elegant,  andy 
tasteful,  and  she  is  constantly  remarked  upon 
by  all  your  friends,  as  a  "  nice  person."  Some 
good  old  lady,  in  whose  pew  she  occasionally 
sits  on  a  Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  some- 
time sent  a  papier  mache  card-case,  for  the 
show-box  of  some  Dorcas  benevolent  society, 
thinks — with  a  sly  wink — that  she  would  make 
a  fine  wife  for — somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure  ;  and  the 
marriage  of  some  half  dozen  of  your  old  flames, 
warn  you  that  time  is  slipping  and  your 
chances  failing.  And  in  the  pleasant  warmth 
of  some  after-dinner  mood,  you  resolve — with, 
her  image  in  her  prettiest  pelisse  drifting  across 
your  brain — that  you  will  marry.  Now  comes 
45 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  chase ;  and 
whatever  family  dignity  may  surround  her, 
only  adds  to  the  pleasurable  glow  of  the  pur- 
suit. You  give  an  hour  more  to  your  toilette, 
and  a  hundred  or  two  more,  a  year  to  your 
tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gracious. 
Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  everybody  says  ; 
and  you  believe  it  yourself.  You  agree  in 
your  talk  about  books,  and  churches  and  flow- 
ers. Of  course  she  has  good  taste — for  she 
accepts  you.  The  acceptance  is  dignified,  ele- 
gant, and  even  courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations  ;  and 
your  old  friend  Tom  writes  you — that  he  hears 
you  are  going  to  marry  a  splendid  woman  ; 
and  all  the  old  ladies  say — what  a  capital 
match  !  And  your  business  partner,  who  is  a 
married  man,  and  something  of  a  wag — 
"  sympathizes  sincerely."  Upon  the  whole, 
you  feel  a  little  proud  of  your  arrangement. 
You  write  to  an  old  friend  in  the  country,  that 
you  are  to  marry  presently  Miss  Charlotte  of 
such  a  street,  whose  father  was  something 
very  fine,  in  his  way ;  and  whose  father  before 
him  was  very  distinguished  ;  you  add,  in  a 
postscript,  that  she  is  easily  situated,  and  has 
46 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


"  expectations."  Your  friend,  who  has  a  wife 
that  he  loves,  and  that  loves  him,  writes  back 
kindly — "  hoping  you  may  be  happy  "  ;  and 
hoping  so  yourself,  you  light  your  cigar — one 
of  your  last  bachelor  cigars — with  the  margin 
of  his  letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage  ; 
at  which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome  %>:.••• 
from  your  wife's  spinster  cousins — and  drink 
a  great  deal  of  champagne  with  her  bachelor 
uncles.  And  as  you  take  the  dainty  hand  of 
your  bride — very  magnificent  under  that  bridal 
wreath,  and  with  her  face  lit  up  by  a  brilliant 
glow — your  eye,  and  your  soul,  for  the  first 
time,  grow  full.  And  as  your  arm  circles  that 
elegant  figure,  and  you  draw  her  towards  you, 
feeling  that  she  is  yours — there  is  a  bound  at 
your  heart,  that  makes  you  think  your  soul- 
life  is  now  whole,  and  earnest.  All  your  early 
dreams,  and  imaginations,  come  flowing  on 
your  thought,  like  bewildering  music ;  and  as 
you  gaze  upon  her — the  admiration  of  that 
crowd — it  seems  to  you,  that  all  that  your 
heart  prizes,  is  made  good  by  the  accident  of 
marriage. 

Ah — thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes 

47 


<§>\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


again — bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pictures  ; 
and  the  hour  at  the  altar,  is  but  a  poor  type  of 
the  waste  of  years  ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered ;  Char- 
lotte has  secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and 
she  meets  the  compliments  of  your  old  friends 
who  come  to  dine  with  you,  with  a  suavity, 
that  is  never  at  fault.  And  they  tell  you — 
after  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  you  sit  quietly 
smoking  in  memory  of  the  olden  times — that 
she  is  a  splendid  woman.  Even  the  old  ladies 
who  come  for  occasional  charities,  think 
raadame  a  pattern  of  a  lady  ;  and  so  think  her 
old  admirers,  whom  she  receives  still  with  an 
easy  grace,  that  half  puzzles  you.  And  as  you 
stand  by  the  ball-room  door,  at  two  of  the 
morning,  with  your  Charlotte's  shawl  upon 
your  arm,  some  little  panting  fellow  will  con- 
firm the  general  opinion,  by  telling  you  that 
madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer  ;  and  Monsieur 
le  Comte,  will  praise  extravagantly  her  French. 
You  are  grateful  for  all  this  ;  but  you  have  an 
uncommonly  serious  way  of  expressing  your 
gratitude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy 
fellow ;  and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over 
48 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


your  thought ;  and  you  wonder  that  the  sight  of 
your  Charlotte  in  the  dress  you  used  to  admire 
so  much,  does  not  scatter  them  to  the  winds; 
but  it  does  not.     You  feel  coy  about  putting 
your  arm  around  that  delicately  robed  figure 
— you    might    derange   the   plaitings   of   her 
dress.     She  is  civil  towards  you;  and  tender; 
towards  your  bachelor  friends.     She  talks  with 
dignity — adjusts  her  lace  cap — and  hopes  you 
will  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sakev 
of  the  family.     Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  withf| 
a  tear ;  and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  especially^ 
when  you  have  some  spruce  young  fellows  at " 
your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes,  per- 
haps, whose  superscription  you  do  not  know ; 
and  some  of  her  admirers'  attentions  become 
so  pointed,  and  constant,  that  your  pride  is 
stirred.  It  would  be  silly  to  show  jealousy ; 
but  you  suggest  to  your  "  dear  " — as  you  sip 
your  tea — the  slight  impropriety  of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you   fondly   long  for  some  little V 
scene,  as  a  proof  of  wounded  confidence  ;  but ' 
no — nothing  of  that;  she  trusts  (calling  you 
"  my  dear  "),  that  she  knows  how  to  sustain  the 
dignity  of  her  position. 
49 


©\>er  Ibis  Cigar 


You  are  too  sick  at  heart,  for  comment,  or 
for  reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul  of 

which  you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are 
gone?  Is  this  the  blending  of  sympathies  that 
was  to  steal  from  life  its  bitterness :  and  spread 
over  care  and  suffering,  the  sweet,  ministering 
hand  of  kindness,  and  of  love  ?  Ay,  you  may 
well  wander  back  to  your  bachelor  club,  and 
make  the  hours  long  at  the  journals,  or  at  play 
— killing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life  !  Talk 
sprightly  with  your  old  friends — and  mimic 
the  joy  you  have  not ;  or  you  will  wear  a  bad 
name  upon  your  hearth  and  head.  Never 
suffer  your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  the  tears 
which  in  bitter  hours,  may  start  from  your 
eye ;  or  to  hear  the  sighs  which  in  your  times 
of  solitary  musings,  may  break  forth  sudden, 
and  heavy.  Go  on  counterfeiting  your  life,  as 
you  have  begun.  It  was  a  nice  match ;  and 
you  are  a  nice  husband  ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God, 
towards  whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely ; 
and  you  love  to  catch  him  in  his  respite  from, 
your  well-ordered  nursery,  and  the  tasks  of  his 
teachers — alone ;  and  to  spend  upon  him  a  little 
50 


©ver  1bi0  Cigar 


of  that  depth  of  feeling,  which  through  so 
many  years  has  scarce  been  stirred.  You.  play 
with  him  at  his  games ;  you  fondle  him ;  you 
take  him  to  your  bosom. 

But  papa — he  says — see  how  you  have  tum- 
bled my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you  ! 

Ah,  thought  I — my  cigar  was  getting  dull, 
and  nauseous — is  there  not  a  spot  in  your 
heart,  that  the  gloved  hand  of  your  elegant 
wife  has  never  reached  :  that  you  wish  it  might 
reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend :  his  was  not 
a  "  nice  match  "  :  he  was  married  years  before 
you :  and  yet  the  beaming  looks  of  his  wife 
and  his  lively  smile,  are  as  fresh  and  honest  as 
they  were  years  ago ;  and  they  make  you 
ashamed  of  your  disconsolate  humor.  Your 
stay  is  lengthened,  but  the  home  letters  are 
not  urgent  for  your  return :  yet  they  are 
marvelously  proper  letters,  and  rounded  with 
a  French  adieu.  Yrou  could  have  wished  a 
little  scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in 
the  place  of  the  postscript  which  gives  you  the 
names  of  a  new  opera  troupe ;  and  you  hint  as 
much — a  very  bold  stroke  for  you. 
51 


<§>ver  IMs  Cigar 


Ben — she  says — writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return,  there  is  no  great  antici- 
pation of  delight;  in  contrast  with  the  old 
dreams,  that  a  pleasant  summer's  journey  has 
called  up,  your  parlor  as  you  enter  it — so  ele- 
gant, so  still — so  modish — seems  the  charnel- 
house  of  your  heart. 

By  and  by,  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sick- 
ness ;  you  have  capital  nurses — nurses  highly 
recommended — nurses  who  never  make  mis- 
takes— nurses  who  have  served  long  in  the 
family.  But  alas  for  that  heart  of  sympathy, 
and  for  that  sweet  face,  shaded  with  your  pain 
• — like  a  soft  landscape  with  flying  clouds — 
you  have  none  of  them !  Your  pattern  wife 
may  come  in  from  time  to  time  to  look  after 
your  nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and 
^x\  glide  out — her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the 
door — like  dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night  breezes 
of  winter.  Or  perhaps  after  putting  this  chair 
in  its  place,  and  adjusting  to  a  more  tasteful 
fold  that  curtain — she  will  ask  you,  with  a 
tone  that  might  mean  sympathy,  if  it  were 
not  a  stranger  to  you — if  she  can  do  anything 
more. 

Thank  her — as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close 
52 


©vcr  Ibis  Cigar 


your  eyes,  and  dream — or  rouse  up,  to  lay 
your  hand  upon  the  head  of  your  little  boy — 
to  drink  in  health,  and  happiness,  from  his 
earnest  look,  as  he  gazes  strangely  upon  your 
pale  and  shrunken  forehead.  Your  smile  even, 
ghastly  with  long  suffering,  disturbs  him ; 
there  is  no  interpreter,  save  the  heart,  be- 
tween you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his 
flushed,  healthful  face ;  and  he  steps  about  on 
tiptoe,  at  a  motion  from  the  nurse,  to  look  at 
all  those  rosy-colored  medicines  upon  the  table 
— and  he  takes  your  cane  from  the  corner,  and 
passes  his  hand  over  the  smooth  ivory  head ; 
and  he  runs  his  eye  along  the  wall  from  picture 
to  picture,  till  it  rests  on  one  he  knows — a 
figure  in  bridal  dress — beautiful,  almost  fond 
— and  he  forgets  himself,  and  says  aloud — 
"  There's  mamma  !  " 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip ;  yo 
waken  from  your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager 
boy  is  looking ;  and  your  eyes,  too,  take  in 
much  as  they  can  of  that  figure — now  shadowy 
to  your  fainting  vision — doubly  shadowy  to 
your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day,  you  sink  from  life :  the 
53 


©vcr  Ibis  Cigar 


phj^sician  says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why 
should  it  be  ?  There  is  very  little  elastic  force 
within  you  to  keep  the  end  away.  Madame 
is  called,  and  your  little  boy.  Your  sight  is 
dim,  but  they  whisper  that  she  is  beside  your 
bed;  and  you  reach  out  your  hand — both 
hands.  You  fancy  you  hear  a  sob — a  strange 
sound !  It  seems  as  if  it  came  from  distant 
years — a  confused,  broken  sigh,  sweeping  over 
the  long  stretch  of  your  life :  and  a  sigh  from 
your  heart — not  audible — answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of 
your  little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  towards  you, 
and  move  your  lips,  as  if  you  would  speak  to 
him ;  and  they  place  his  head  near  you,  so 
that  you  feel  his  fine  hair  brushing  your  cheek 
— "  My  boy,  you  must  love — your  mother  !  " 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive 
grasp,  and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon 
your  face.  Good  God!  Can  it  be  indeed  a 
tear  ? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile 


flits  over  your  features,  as  you  seem  to  see  her 
figure — the  figure  of  the  painting — bending 
over  you ;  and  you  feel  a  bound  at  your  heart 
— the  same  bound  that  you  felt  on  your  bridal 
54 


©ver  Ibis  Cigar 


morning ;  the  same  bound  which  you  used  to 
feel  in  the  spring-time  of  your  life. 

Only  one — rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart 

— that  is  all ! 

My  cigar  is  out.  I  could  not  have  lit  it 

again,  if  I  would.  It  was  wholly  burned. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy  " — said  I,  as  I  finished  read- 
ing — "  may  I  smoke  now  under  your  rose- 
tree  ?  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her  knit- 
ting to  hear  me — smiled — brushed  a  tear  from 
her  old  eyes,  said — "  Yes — Isaac,"  and  having 
scratched  the  back  of  her  head,  with  the  dis- 
engaged needle,  resumed  her  knitting. 


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